Tanzer: Gainesville through (y)our eyes

OPINION

BY KIM TANZER

“Through (Y)Our Eyes” was the name of an exhibit featuring photographs by acclaimed San Francisco architect Donlyn Lyndon and his photographer wife Alice Wingwall, paired with photographs taken by residents of Gainesville’s Fifth Avenue/Pleasant Street (FAPS) Neighborhood. It was part of a Florida Humanities Council grant I co-hosted in 1997 with Phyllis Bleiweis, then director of the Seaside Institute. Over two weekends, residents of Seaside visited Gainesville, then the reverse. Walking tours, symposia, and communal meals allowed participants to learn each other’s perspectives on urban design and the importance of community.

It was eye-opening. We learned, for instance, that many residents of the FAPS neighborhood disliked tin roofs, which were ubiquitous in their neighborhood and prominently featured on expensive, award-winning Seaside homes. As FAPS residents explained, they and their families had been unable to get loans to replace old roofs, leading them to a state of disrepair—the result of decades of lenders “red-lining” African-American neighborhoods. This made it impossible to borrow money to buy or repair homes. It wasn’t the tin roofs FAPS residents disliked; it was rusted, leaking tin. Seeing Seaside, they came to appreciate the beauty of the roofing material. At the same time, many of us came to understand that disrepair in historically Black neighborhoods was a result of decades of systemic racial prejudice, not simple neglect.

I was reminded of this rich, convivial exchange recently when I met with two local developers prominent in the local New Urbanism movement, their architect, and two prominent members of Gainesville’s African-American community to discuss building small houses on small lots. The meeting was cordial and substantive. Over two hours, many topics were discussed, but two caught my attention: the value of small houses and of lawns.

The New Urbanists enthused about small houses (around 1000 square feet) on very small lots. They respect the efficiency of these designs, the aesthetic of their carpenter vernacular architectural style, and the potential to build relatively affordable “starter homes.” 

The community leaders pointed out that the people who lived in these small homes did so by necessity—not by choice. Particularly during times of segregation, deep poverty was endemic in the Black community, and “shotgun houses” were all people could afford, at best. (They were called this because they are very narrow, with doors to each room lined up so that you could shoot a shotgun from the front of the house to the back without hitting a wall.) Like the symbolic meaning of tin roofs, shotgun houses mean different things to different segments of our community.

Also, during our meeting, the New Urbanists made a disparaging remark about large lots and especially front lawns. A segment of our Gainesville community despises lawns, mostly because they are sometimes watered and fertilized and always mowed, which uses energy. It seemed to me that the New Urbanists took for granted the assumption that no one likes lawns, especially not large ones, but they were wrong. Here too, neighborhood representatives said they do like larger yards, which allow children to play and people to garden or barbecue. In this case, too, it seemed everyone learned a perspective they had not brought to the meeting.

A few days later, Gainesville Neighborhood Voices, a group of which I am part, hosted a community meeting to discuss a proposal to build small houses on very small (legally “substandard”) lots. The developer has proposed reducing side setbacks on very small properties to allow for slightly larger homes. Once again, prominent members of Gainesville’s African-American community expressed concern. One person explained that she had grown up in a neighborhood with houses set very close together, where neighbors could see into each other’s windows and hear household noises coming from next door. She explained that she and her family had worked to escape from a living condition she found unacceptable.

In response, a White participant argued that we need to fight climate change by using less land for each house and that newer materials (double-paned windows, insulation) will alleviate sound problems. 

Similarly, during a recent City Commission meeting, Commissioner Reina Saco mentioned a 900-square-foot house in the middle of a property about 100 feet across, saying “it drove her insane,” presumably because she saw this as a waste of buildable land. She excoriated people she described as “landed gentry” who may prefer larger residential lots in their neighborhood. While some of the differences of opinion I have summarized seem to break along largely racial lines, Commissioner Saco’s position, intentionally or not, pits older people against younger people and homeowners against renters.

These are just a few recent local examples of sincere differences, based largely on life experiences and ambitions, that threaten to turn neighbors into unwitting urban design combatants. 

Following that long ago Seaside/FAPS exchange, I spent time reflecting on ways to find common ground. The Greek god Hermes–who protects, yet strategically crosses, boundaries–provides a useful guide, but I prefer the Yoruba god Eshu-Elegba. 

In an oft-told story, Eshu-Elegba demonstrates the challenge of seeing the world as oppositions: Two friends were standing in the road when a horseman rode between them. One friend described the “red-hatted” horseman, while the other described him as wearing a black hat. A fight ensued. In due time, Eshu-Elegba rode back toward the altercation, wearing a hat that was red on one side and black on the other. The astonished friends laughed at their mistaken assumptions and reconciled.

In Gainesville, our spatial politics seem increasingly hardened. Short of an intervention by Hermes or Eshu-Elegba, it will take generous people with good hearts time to build trust, and a commitment to genuinely participate in extended conversations, to create the community many of us seek. As a start, we must all commit to seeing our town through each others’ eyes.

Kim Tanzer lives in Gainesville. She is a former UF architecture professor, who was also dean of the University of Virginia School of Architecture.

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